Alexander Kirk: A Revised Conclusion
by redisthenewblackington
Summary: A lizzington-centric retelling of the season three finale.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** To be quite honest, though it had its winning moments, I felt that the finale left much to be desired, particularly from a lizzington shipper's POV. We at least needed a reunion, if nothing else. I knew what I had to do, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Starting with Red's confrontation of Kate, I rewrote it, keeping many lines intact, but digging deeper, and finally making some sense out of that completely nonsensical pregnancy timeline. Everything most of us lizzington shippers crave is packed into this story, and I hope it'll bring some satisfaction to my shipmates.

-...-...-...-...-...-

Red made no effort to hide his feelings of anguish at Mr. Kaplan's betrayal. _'Tom gave us the slip, my ass,_ ' he thought. Fingers balled tightly into fists at his sides, he took three long strides to close the distance between them.

His once most-trusted associate trembled slightly under his piercing gaze, stuck at a momentary loss for words. She'd known that this day would come, had practiced her explanation ad nauseum during every quiet moment that she'd had to herself. She'd decided to be firm with him. Stern. Commanding. She'd stand by her actions because they were warranted. This was her job, and no one could do it better.

That was the plan, anyway.

Now, in the moment, her tongue felt thickened with a mixture of guilt and fear. Too many times, she'd seen that look in his eyes, but never directed at her. "Raymond, I -"

Before she could finish that thought, he cut her off with a menacing growl. He couldn't believe that she'd be the one to kick him while he was down, and god help him, he'd never been lower. "Oh Kate... I would name every human being on the planet before you if asked who might betray me."

She sighed and tried once more to begin, "Raymond -" only to be cut off again.

" I know what you've done," he sneered through gritted teeth. "I know you helped Tom and Agnes leave the country without my knowledge."

Somehow, the indignation in his voice cut her the wrong way, provoking within her the courage to respond in kind. She could do this. She could stand up to him. She'd done it before. "Yes."

"Yes," he parroted.

She lifted her chin and boldly held his gaze. "What exactly do you want to know, Raymond? If I'm sorry? Yes. I'm sorry you weren't more honest with Elizabeth from the beginning. I'm sorry you wanted to know her so desperately that you convinced yourself we could keep her safe. I couldn't sit back and watch you make the same mistake with Agnes. I didn't betray you. I did what I've always done. I protected you... this time, from yourself. And I protected her, too."

"You're wrong." He shook his head. Christ, she couldn't have been more wrong.

" Don't ask me where they are. I won't tell you." Even as she spoke the words, steady on the surface, visions of Brimley with a pair of needle nose pliars and an ornery alpaca danced in her mind's eye. She could withstand his insane advanced interrogation methods if necessary, but that didn't mean she relished the thought.

"You don't understand, Kate. I don't have to ask. I know where they are, and so does Alexander Kirk."

"Kirk?" Impossible.

"Kirk was tracking Tom. He knows they're in Cuba. He's flying there as we speak." Red rested one tired hand on her shoulder, as if to steady them both. He stuck his other hand into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around the tiny thumb drive that Aram had given him weeks ago. He kept it with him at all times now, a talisman, a touchstone. "I know you had her best interests at heart, that you were trying to protect her, but now, _because of you_ , Agnes is in grave danger."

She tried to swallow the thick lump in her throat. He still didn't really know what she had done, at least not the worst of it. Through quivering lips, she whispered, "Not just Agnes."

The air cracked as if a lightning rod had been struck between them. Kate held her breath and watched his body freeze. Understanding hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking him back a few steps as a strangled sound escaped his throat. "Lizzie."

"Yes." There was more, so much more, but she might leave the rest up to Elizabeth to tell him, if she wanted.

If she survived.

-...-...-...-...-

Seated across from Red on his jet, just after takeoff, Kate felt his eyes on her, demanding her attention. Lips pursed, she looked up, anticipating the next deluge of questions. At least they were only flying out to Cuba, and not somewhere across the Atlantic. Touchdown couldn't come quickly enough.

"How? How could you?"

"The 'how' won't change anything." The set of his jaw and twitch of his cheek told her that her reply was insufficient. Before he could repeat the question, she indulged him, "I suppose I knew what I would do that afternoon in the car, on the drive to the mobile ICU. That poor girl, so afraid, always looking over her shoulder, in the dark about who she was and why it mattered. We've discussed this before, Raymond, repeatedly. Both Dembe and I have tried to reason with you, but you've consistently dismissed us every time. This time, now, it would have been no different..." She paused for a breath, letting it sink in before continuing, "But it wasn't just about Elizabeth anymore. The baby was already paying the price for her association with you. I saw my opportunity, and then I took it."

He shuddered, shaking his head as if to deflect her explanation. "I saw her die."

"You thought you did. Most heart monitors come with simulation devices for training purposes. All Nik had to do was connect her heart leads to the simulator, and then he could make her vitals do whatever he wanted... raise her heart rate, drop her oxygen levels, crash her blood pressure."

He pulled the thumb drive from his pocket and slowly rotated it through his fingers. "I sat over her body. I watched her die."

"No, you saw what we needed you to see. Once she was on the ventilator, one large dose of a beta blocker dropped her cardiac output and pulse to a level just barely detectable under the best of circumstances, let alone with a gunfight raging outside. Then, you didn't want her body taken to the morgue. That made things easier. Elizabeth was in the body bag for less than two minutes. Nik was standing by with the antidote, glucagon. I found a suitable Jane Doe for the funeral. Need I continue?"

Had he not been sitting already, he may have collapsed again. His hollowed stomach had long since dropped. He clenched his jaw even harder, blinking back tears and trying to steady his voice, "Had it really come to that?"

"I know how much you love her, Raymond, but she loves her daughter just as much, if not more. Yes, it had come to that."

At last, he averted his withering gaze, letting it drift to the clouds outside the window. "Ever since that day, not a minute has gone by that I haven't thought about her last words. I turn them over in my mind, analyzing every possible nuance. She had finally called me by my first name, for the very first and last time. I was the last person she spoke to. My face was the last thing she saw. Maybe that isn't real now, but it was all too real before. For weeks, that moment has plagued me."

Kate wanted to take it as a good sign, that he was opening up and sharing with her, but she knew that it was only wishful thinking. Softly, she coaxed him, just as she would have under more normal circumstances, "What did she say?"

"Very little. Just an incomplete sentence, lacking one single word - the one which would have given it all meaning... she said, 'Raymond, I do love...'"

Despite her frustration, Kate's heart violently seized for him. She could just barely resist the urge to reach for his hand. Such a gesture wouldn't be welcome, she knew.

He went on, "Love what? Love who? Chinese food? Autumn in Paris? Agnes? Tom? Dare I fool myself into imagining that she might have said 'you'?"

"She might not want to love you, but she does."

"Knowing what I know now, even if that's what she was trying to say, I can't possibly believe that she meant it. It was a declaration born of pity, or possibly guilt. After refusing to let me see her baby, she just didn't want me to think that she'd died hating me."

"She was only protecting her daughter," Kate reiterated.

He shoved the thumb drive back into his pocket with a huff. "Right," he growled. "It would be dangerous for me to simply look at her daughter. It makes perfect sense."

"It did." In a manner of speaking, in a way that she couldn't believe he still couldn't see for himself. Elizabeth had never confirmed it, and Kate didn't dare ask, but she could see it plainly. If she could see it, then why couldn't Raymond?

"Don't be fatuous, Kate. How does it make sense? You said that I don't listen. Well, I'm your captive audience. Indulge me."

It would be unwise to withhold anything from him now, but did she dare lead him to this truth? At the same time, the fact that she hadn't told him already would appear as another betrayal, to him. She was damned no matter what. Rather than answer directly, she said, "But you have seen her. You've held her in your arms, let her grasp your fingers, stroked her soft, _blonde_ hair."

"You're deflecting."

"Am I? You and Elizabeth became close while you were on the run, working to clear her name." Again, the spasm under his left eye. She'd struck a nerve.

He nodded, but his eyes narrowed further. "Too close for her, apparently. Never close enough for me."

"You were intimate." Perhaps she should have phrased it as a question, she thought, after the words had already passed her lips. It sounded like an accusation.

"That's none of your business," he snapped. "Especially after what you've done."

"My god, Raymond..." Could he be more dense? "I'm trying to lead you somewhere, but you aren't following."

He simply continued to stare at her, his nostrils flaring with every breath.

After several long seconds, she added, "Have you ever wondered, if only for a moment, how eleven months of gestation could result in a premature birth?"

He canted his head, perplexed. "I beg your pardon?"

"That doesn't make sense, does it? No. What does make sense is Agnes being conceived in late August, while Elizabeth was on the run, with you."

His jaw dropped and trembled, unable to contain the soft whimper that escaped his lips. "But Tom," he began helplessly.

"Is as clueless as you, apparently."

"So, she, she's..." He felt as if he'd been wrapped in sunshine and sucker punched, cradled in warmth but utterly ruined. It was everything he wanted, but nothing that he should have, nothing he deserved.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's so simple, so blatantly obvious, Raymond, that I could only assume that you were being willfully ignorant. Either you didn't want to know, or you already knew and were giving her an out. When you told me her due date, I immediately did the math. Tom was hundreds of miles away, hunting down Karakurt."

Red closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, working his way through the situation from Kate's perspective, hopeful that her actions could be understood... only to find that he couldn't see beyond wounds carved so deeply. His rumbling, sandpaper-rough voice rubbed her raw. "If we don't get them back, I don't expect either of us to survive."

-...-...-...-...-...-

When at last they arrived in Cuba, Dembe drove like a bat out of hell to the little villa where Kate had tried to stow away Red's whole world. Guns drawn, the trio skulked across the yard and found the front door unlocked - the first of several bad signs. Glass littered the carpet. Picture frames had fallen off the walls. The scene painted the obvious signs of a struggle, two adults taken against their will. Red whimpered at the sight of the empty crib, and he braced himself against it while Dembe cleared the rest of the house. When he returned, he communicated his findings, or rather his lack thereof, with a small shake of his head.

Galvanized, newly enraged, Red turned to regard his betrayer, his destroyer, his close friend. "Kate..."

She stood stock still, accepting of her fate, whatever it may be. Still holding his gun, he cupped her face in his hands. In the otherwise silent room, the sound of him flicking off the safety was deafening. She could feel his trigger finger twitching against her cheek as he searched her eyes.

His grief-stricken voice rolled over her like a tidal wave. "What am I gonna do with you, Kate?"

She closed her eyes and held her breath.

Neither were aware of Dembe's silent approach until he gently placed his hand over the one in which Red held his gun. "Raymond, don't." He didn't know whether or not Red was about to kill her, but he refused to stand by and watch it happen. Red offered no resistance as he extracted the gun from his fingers and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Let her help us find Elizabeth, and then decide."

Red snapped to attention as if a spell had been broken. When he spoke, his tone was schooled and smoothed back into business mode. "My phone, please. Unless Kirk already had a team on the ground in Cuba, he'd have to reach out to Manny Soto to carry out his plan. Let's hope old Manny isn't still chafed about that little strontium ninety gambit."

Kate said nothing, simply relieved that he had a plan. Frankly, she doubted her usefulness at this juncture. She wouldn't have even known where to start looking for them.

Some bloodhound, she was.

-...-...-...-...-

After ignoring Red's calls, Manny was nowhere near pleased to find him on his doorstep, but he was predictably more than happy to roll over on Kirk for the right price, especially after Red assured him that Kirk wouldn't survive to retaliate. Manny gave him both the keys to his SUV and the GPS coordinates of a desolate cabin in the jungle that Kirk had rented from him, far off the beaten path. It was a place where screams could go unheard and blood could be spilled with no questions asked.

The unpaved road to the cabin was bumpy, and at their speed, brutal on the vehicle's suspension.

Not that they cared.

Dembe parked a few hundred yards from the cabin, and they briskly felt their way through the pitch-black night, each weighed down with more ammo than they could possibly need.

Though prepared to run into a team of guards outside, Red found that Alexander's hubris hadn't waned over the years since he'd seen him last. He peered through a window and saw what looked like a small celebration going on inside. Six men sat around the kitchen table, sharing an enormous bottle of vodka that was nearly empty. Kirk sat at the head of the table, his cheeks flushed from having too much to drink. With his condition, it wouldn't take much. Red saw no sign of Liz or Agnes, but from Manny, he'd learned that the cabin had two bedrooms and a basement. He and Dembe would take out Kirk and the others, while Kate was charged with finding his girls.

He took several paces back from the window, nodding at Dembe before taking aim at Kirk, through the glass. Kirk wouldn't know what hit him, or who had killed him, and he didn't give a damn. He squeezed the trigger three times. The window shattered, and Kirk dropped to the floor. The five remaining men clambered to their feet, drawing their guns and stumbling towards the door. Idiots. Every last one of them. He and Dembe summarily put them all down in the doorway.

Red nodded to Kate to follow them inside, and he intentionally stepped on the bodies in his way, trusting that the rubber treads on his custom Italian shoes would keep him from slipping in their blood. With his gun still drawn, he made his way over to Kirk, to check his pulse. Kate headed towards the bedrooms while Dembe looked for survivors.

It was so absurdly easy that it didn't even feel real. "Oh, Alexander," he spoke aloud to the dead man. "You really should have stayed in Moscow." He picked up the vodka bottle and took a large swig. As he set the bottle down, Kate reappeared in the doorway, cradling his daughter in her arms.

"She's okay. She was sound asleep in a bassinet. The basement door is locked. He must have Elizabeth down there."

He sighed, blinking back tears of relief. Rather than waste time by looking for a key, he took several large strides down the hall and kicked in the basement door with a single, swift blow.

"Give her to me. Find Tom," he grunted, and then anxiously trotted downstairs. He flipped on the light and stood at the landing of the steps, taking in the sight of the woman he'd believed to be dead. She was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the room. Scrapes and contusions on her jaw showed how hard she had fought her captors. On any other day, he would have been proud. Relief and pain at the sight of her swelled like a fist in his chest. He resisted the urge to sprint the few steps between them and pull her into his arms.

"Red," she breathed.

He looked down at Agnes, finally taking in their many shared similarities. Her chin, her cheeks, her fair complexion, but most of all, the way she arched a single eyebrow as she stared back at him curiously. With his eyes still on his daughter, he asked, "How could you, Elizabeth? Why didn't you tell me?"

But she ignored his questions. "Is she okay? Where's Tom?"

Rather than untie her, Red walked in a slow circle around her, looking her over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her red nail polish. Part of him was stalled with disbelief, not entirely convinced that he wasn't hallucinating again. "She's fine. Dembe and Kate are looking for him now. Answer me."

"If you believed that I was dead, then so would the rest of the world. Cooper, everyone at the Post Office, the entire criminal underworld. I didn't want to do it. I did it for her. It was the only way."

He stopped directly in front of her, his feet planted in between hers, and shook his head. "I'm not talking about that."

"You mean..." She couldn't bring herself to even finish the sentence.

"Yes," he growled. Agnes began to squirm in his arms, displeased by his tone, so he went back to walking, rocking her gently.

Liz sighed and closed her eyes before replying, "Vincent Peretti."

"Vincent Peretti?"

"Of _the_ Peretti family, lot number twenty-seven at the King's auction, for sale to the highest bidder to ensure his silence, damned because of his name. He was just a boy, an innocent boy. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I don't want that to happen to her." She sniffled and feebly attempted to brush away a tear with her shoulder.

Red reached out to get it with his thumb, leaving a wet streak across her cheekbone. "Yes, I remember," he said.

"I know that it isn't all your fault. You didn't make me a Rostova, but we made her... both a Rostova and a Reddington. God, I can't think of a more perilous identity to have. That's why I wanted to give her away, but then I couldn't. I couldn't go through with it. And when I told you I was pregnant, you just assumed it was Tom's baby, and he assumed the same. I've wondered all along if perhaps you secretly knew. You knew that I was pregnant before I even knew for sure, but you never said anything. I even thought that maybe it was the reason you were so adamant about me keeping her. When Mr. Kaplan told me her plan, I didn't know if I could do it... but then I saw her. She looked just like you, and she was so beautiful and precious and utterly helpless. That's when I agreed. I didn't know what else to do."

"I know you don't believe me, but you're much safer with my help than without. Your alleged death didn't stop Kirk from going after Agnes. Imagine his delight when he tracked Tom all the way to Cuba, only to discover that you were here, living and breathing, waiting for her."

"And now I know why..." She trailed off, expecting Red to elucidate on Kirk's motives, curious as to whether or not he knew them, but he remained silent, hanging onto her every word. "He's sick, and Agnes and I are his only living relatives. He wanted to keep us, alive, to harvest from us as needed." She rolled her shoulders and winced as the motion pulled at the ropes around her wrists. "Do you plan on untying me?"

"I would, if I trusted you to stay put until we finish talking."

All complaints died on her tongue. Of course he didn't trust her. Why would he? "I didn't kill my father. I killed my uncle."

He squinted at her, chewing the inside of his cheek. "No, Lizzie. Alexander Kirk is your uncle. He wasn't even there that night."

She chuckled humorlessly. "I know Kirk wasn't there, but he _was_ with my mother nine months before I was born. She never knew if I was her husband's or his brother's. Kirk had his suspicions, but chose to keep quiet rather than admit his betrayal to his brother. By the time he heard the news about his brother's passing, I was already gone, hidden away with Sam."

"Katarina had an affair with Constantine?"

"He ran a DNA test with a sample of my blood from the car accident. He probably tested Tom and Agnes too. They've either killed him, or they told him that he isn't her father, and he escaped." She knew that if he'd escaped without hearing the truth, then he would have reached out to Red for help. He'd want to get her out of there, at all costs. Dead or alive, he was gone for good. It occured to her that permanently losing Tom hurt nowhere near as badly as losing Red had. She sighed heavily, feeling her way through a sudden, stabbing guilt. Tom may have conned her into their first marriage, but she'd conned him into the last one.

"I know you believe that he's changed. I can even believe that he wants to change, but men like Tom don't change. Short of a bullet between his eyes, I couldn't stop you from marrying him a third time. I let him live because you loved him, and to kill him would be to hurt you... But Agnes is equally ours, and I won't have that man in my daughter's life, even if it hurts you, and even if you hate me for it. Full disclosure, Lizzie. If he's still alive, I can't promise that I won't kill him. If I sense even the slightest possibility that he wishes you or Agnes harm, he's dead." Though she was tied to a chair, technically at his mercy, his posture stiffened in anticipation of her rage-fueled reaction.

Much to his surprise, she just nodded glumly, staring downward at her lap. She'd expected him to say as much.

"How long have you known?" she asked. "Tom said that you've been showing up at my apartment, insistent on providing security, a trust fund, desperate to be a part of her life."

"Only a few hours. Before, I'd only wanted to protect her because she's yours, not because she's mine."

"I don't understand how you failed to figure it out. I mean, did you forget about that night, after Dembe saved us from Solomon? We did have a lot to drink, but I distinctly remember crawling into your bed. Then I woke up alone, sore, with hickies on my inner thighs."

"No, Lizzie." Both his expression and tone softened. "I remember every last second, every sound you made, every freckle on your body, every curve laid out before me. That memory... There isn't enough hard liquor in the world to make me forget that."

The faraway look in his gaze made her eyes well up with another round of tears. She understood. "You regret it."

"Don't you?" If she did, they almost certainly had different reasons. "It's difficult to admit, now that we have our daughter, but imagine she was never conceived. Would you regret it then? Didn't you regret it before you found out?"

"No, I don't, and neither should you. My only regret is that you seemed to regret it. I'll remind you that you're the one who left in the middle of the night."

In light of all that had transpired since then, her answer surprised him. "We crossed a line that I had no business crossing. You were traumatized, vulnerable. What happened when you crawled into my bed was something that I don't even deserve to have in my dreams, much less in real life. I was selfish, and I lacked the strength to rebuff your advances... And then there was Tom. You still loved him, wanted him. I was simply filling in the empty space he'd left. I knew that I was momentary, so I left to spare you the early morning walk of shame. I thought that if we didn't wake up together, then you could more easily pretend that it never happened."

She shook her head and glared at him, "Oh, shut up. Can you even hear yourself? Do you know how patronizing your self-loathing sounds in this context? I came to you because I wanted you. We were equally vulnerable to each other."

Red didn't know how to respond to that, but felt they'd each spoken enough of their respective pieces for one night. Even now, a war raged within him over whether he should pull her into his arms or disappear to sulk alone, to lick his wounds, to nurse his fractured heart. But then, one didn't exactly preclude the other, did it? Cradling his daughter with one arm, he circled around to the back of the chair and produced a knife from his coat pocket. He trembled at her proximity as he slowly cut into the ropes around her wrists. The heady scent of her shampoo invaded his nostrils, forcing him to close his eyes for the briefest of moments.

With great effort, he stood up and made his way to the front of the chair, where her ankles had been tied to its legs. Then, he was back on his knees, kneeling before her. While working on the ropes, from his peripheral vision, he saw her reaching down, for Agnes, he assumed, but he was wrong again. She instead cupped his face with her hand, the same hand he'd pressed to his cheek when he thought she had died. When he looked up at her face, it was too much to bear. A single, fat tear slid down his cheek, into her waiting fingers.

"Raymond, thank you," she whispered.

He shuddered but made no reply, intent on setting her free before he fell apart completely. When he stood up and threw the ropes aside, she immediately stood with him and pulled him into her arms, trusting that he wouldn't resist. With his free arm, he hugged her back as tightly as he dared, careful not to crush their daughter between them. He felt her hands everywhere, on his shoulders, the nape of his neck, the small of his back, as if she were committing the feel his body to memory.

"You have no idea what you've done to me, Elizabeth," he breathed against her neck. Of all the times she'd cut him down, not once did he ever want her to know how affected he was. He'd always accepted it, willingly taking her lashes and then suffering privately, so as not to burden her further.

But this was different. Everything was different. This time, he wanted her to know. "I'm sorry," she sobbed.

He took a step back and held out their daughter, offering her to her mother. Liz took her gratefully and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Hi, sweetheart. Mommy missed you so much," she cooed. "I'll never let anyone take you away from me again." She soon tore her eyes away from her baby's face to look up at Red. "So... what happens now?"

"I have a safehouse in Havana. Dembe will stay with you tonight. Tomorrow, after you've gotten some sleep, we'll come up with a plan."

She nodded, understanding that he wouldn't be there, and why. He needed time alone to process everything.

He stuck his hand into his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the tiny thumb drive for one final time before pulling it out. He wouldn't need it anymore. He gently took her hand, placed it in her palm, and closed her fingers around it. "What's this?" she asked, both wary and curious as she shoved it into her pocket.

"Something you should see before you even think about returning to DC. At the safehouse, you'll find a laptop in your bedroom. After you've put Agnes to bed, use it to open the files. I'm sure you're exhausted, but it won't take long. I'll be staying in the pool house, so if you need me for any reason, that's where you can find me."

He turned towards the stairs, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait. Mr. Kaplan... what are you going to do with her? Please don't kill her. Promise me you won't."

"I'm not going to kill her, Lizzie. You and Agnes are alive and safe. Nothing else matters."

She slid her hand down the length of his arm, laced her fingers with his, and pulled him back to her, just close enough to plant a brief kiss to the corner of his lips. "Okay, good," she said, ignoring his surprised expression. She then took a step forward and glanced at the stairs, encouraging him to lead her up them, still holding his hand.

What on earth would she find on that thumb drive, and why did she have to see it before going home?

-...-...-...-...-

 **AN:** Thank you for reading this long chapter! You can expect the second and final installment within the week.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Oh god. So...Forever. I think this chapter may have taken a little longer than that. All summer I've been OBSESSED with getting it perfect, and yet... I'm not at all satisfied. Anyway, I'm so, so, so sorry that I kept you guys waiting this long. Tremendous thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this.

*WARNING* No actual smut, but glimpses into their naughty minds, and sexual tension IN SPADES.

And oh yeah, I squealed SO loudly when Red reached out to Manny Soto in the premiere. I only used him in the first chapter because I couldn't recall any other Cuban contacts that Red may have, but still, I was excited.

Okay. No more rambling. You've waited long enough.

-...-...-...-...-

 _Dear Mr. Reddington,_

 _Before you read any further, I'd first like to reassure you that I'm not just writing to waste your time with strings of tired, empty platitudes about a hope that you're coping well. No one, not even an optimist like myself could hope for that much. At the very least, and especially now, you're deserving of my candor._

 _Think of this message as an attempt to commiserate from afar. From what little Dembe has told me, I gather that even if I were to secure an in-person meeting with you, you'd likely be incapable of either listening or remembering much of it. It's my hope that by writing instead, should these words at first fail to penetrate, then you'll have the option to revisit them._

 _In such a fragile state, grieving the loss of a close friend, my instincts for self-preservation are at their most base. They dictate that I focus only on my own suffering, but that demand is impossible to heed. You and Liz are so inexplicably, inextricably linked that every time I think of her, my thoughts invariably turn to you, and how much worse you must be feeling now. 'Friend' doesn't even begin to describe your relationship with her, and to be honest, I doubt that an appropriately-descriptive word exists at all._

 _You don't need validation from me, of course, but someone should acknowledge what you're going through. Someone should care. Liz would, and I do._

 _I keep thinking about the day you turned yourself in- about how, regardless of your reputation and the fact that you were shackled to a chair inside a bomb-proof box, the bureau practically jumped to meet your demands. With so many competing theories, the only thing everyone could agree on was that your motives had to be nefarious, in one way or another._

 _We were always on our toes in those early months, nervously playing both defense and offense. It didn't help that you so smugly derived amusement from eliciting that response._

 _And yes, it was exhausting, but what followed was extraordinary and unprecedented._

 _Three years on, it feels as if both everything and nothing has changed. We still don't know your motives, and yet it's become increasingly evident that our collective knee-jerk assumptions were almost certainly incorrect. From that came a seismic shift in dynamics, an unspoken understanding among my fellow agents- that it's permissable (and sometimes even comfortable) for us to be kept in the dark about your mysterious endgame. Now, our desire to know your motives is more firmly rooted in curiosity than necessity. Against all odds, the most wanted criminal has become the most trusted._

 _Like I said, unprecedented._

 _What little I do know is that your ever-evolving blacklist and Liz are linked into some kind of intricate, long-term plan. Now that she's gone, I can only assume that your plans have died with her, and that the taskforce is circling the drain accordingly. I understand that foiled plans aren't the primary source of your grief, but they add a layer too wide and complex to be ignored, and I'm truly sorry._

 _Whatever wrongdoings you've committed over the years, and however many albatrosses hang around your neck, I hope that you can take some measure of solace in the good work that we've done together, as I have. So many government employees toil under the ego-guarding delusion that by performing their professional duties, they're somehow bettering the world. That isn't so at the Post Office. We know it as an indisputable fact._

 _For proof, you need look no further than the case of Maddox Beck and his cult. Without your intel and our taskforce, the virus could have driven our species to extinction. That's an infinite number of human lives saved, both present and future._

 _If it hasn't already, then let that sink in._

 _Even if it was the only case that we ever successfully closed, it would still be worth every ounce of the pain and heartache that we've both caused and endured along the way. I have to believe that even in death, Liz would agree._

 _Regardless of the direction that your life takes after this, please know that my time and skills remain at your disposal, should you ever need them._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Agent Mojtabai_

 _PS: In regards to the attached video, despite its macabre content, I had a strange, ineffable feeling that you'd like to have it. In the interest of protecting both Liz's privacy and yours, I've purged all traces of it from our database. You now possess the only copy._

-...-...-...-...-...-

Liz clamped one hand over her mouth and clutched her heaving chest with the other, ineffectively trying to quiet her sobs. Either Agnes was a heavy sleeper, or the day's stress had taken its toll on her tiny body. She didn't react at all to the sounds of her mother's anguish.

Aram's letter, labeled 'read first', was just the first of two files on the thumb drive that Red had given to her. The second contained that so-called 'macabre' video, and _god_ , she would have killed for the fortification of a stiff drink or ten.

She removed the hand from her mouth and took several steeling breaths as one trembling finger reached out to double-click the second file.

At first, when the video began to play, Liz could only discern that it appeared to be footage from an FBI dashcam. The resolution was somewhat dodgey, the subjects far away, but she could make out Reddington's car on the left, the back of a large utility van straight ahead, and an apparent flurry of activity surrounding them both. Perplexed, she bit her lip and watched as Ressler appproached the van and briskly opened the rear door.

But this was no ordinary van.

Understanding hit her so hard that she couldn't stifle the single word that erupted from her lips. "NO."

Inside, Liz saw herself laid out on a stretcher as Nik made a quick exit, understandably anxious to get away from Red. Without missing a beat, Ressler turned away and stood guard over the van's occupants, fiercely shooing away those he deemed too close.

Seated beside her with his head hung low, Red was holding her hand against his cheek. The video's poor quality couldn't conceal the agony radiating from his slumped-over, withered form. He pressed a kiss to her palm before slowly moving upward to pepper her face with more lingering kisses. It was the most tender, heartbreaking thing that she'd ever seen.

Too soon, Mr. Kaplan and Dembe emerged from Red's car, and only for them did her former partner step aside.

But Red remained motionless for a long moment, his bowed head resting against hers, seemingly oblivious to the arrival of his associates. When he eventually clambered out, Liz wondered what Mr. Kaplan had needed to say in order to pry him away. He looked so lost, so pale and distant as Ressler draped his FBI jacket over his shoulders and guided him to his car.

But then suddenly, Red's knees buckled and gave out.

The fearsome Concierge of Crime collapsed under the oppressive weight of his grief-the grief that Liz herself had knowingly cultivated. She could only whimper pathetically as his body folded inward on itself, crumpling like a frail origami crane in the clutches of a careless child.

Ever steadfast, Dembe caught him by the arms. His lips briefly hovered over Red's ear, murmuring what could only be a kind reassurance.

At precisely that moment, she willingly offered herself up to the swell of suffocating shame and regret. Feeling bad made her less of a monster, right? A real monster wouldn't cry, wouldn't care, wouldn't think twice about it. This desperate ache was self-affirming, but it also consumed the entirety of her attention span.

A break was in order.

She stopped the video and squeezed her eyes shut, this time clamping both hands over her mouth. Her shoulders heaved with every sobbing breath as a silent, steady deluge of tears streamed down her cheeks. One by one, she recalled the many times that she'd accused Red of not caring about her.

He absolutely did. _Of course_ he did, but did he know that she cared for him too? So many of her recent actions suggested otherwise, but her heart had ached and bled for him all along.

Since arriving in Cuba, the few times that Liz had spoken to Mr. Kaplan, she couldn't stop herself from asking about him, about what he was doing and how he was coping. His associate's replies were invariably, maddeningly vague- almost as bad as Reddington himself. Once or twice would have been suspicious, but the collective sum of her non-answers said it all. Red was obviously struggling, but she could only speculate about the extent. Were Mr. Kaplan's evasions meant to stem Liz's guilt, or her own?

Both, probably.

In any case, seeing his part in the dashcam footage was enough to confirm her suspicions. She'd been right to worry.

But damn it all, the video wasn't over yet. It took her a long moment to collect herself enough to press 'play' again.

Just as Dembe closed Red's door behind him, Agent Navabi power-walked into view. Her lips were moving, speaking to Ressler, but he obviously cut her off to deliver the bad news. She abruptly stopped in her tracks and wilted, first reaching out for his hand, and then finally sobbing into his shoulder.

Samar _publicly_ crying for her? To say that Liz didn't expect it would have been an understatement. As far as she could tell, she'd done nothing to merit such a reaction. Quite the opposite, actually.

Memories of their early interactions came flooding back, and the picture that they painted couldn't have been more ugly.

From day one, she was fiercely suspicious of the former Mossad agent. Really, _why_ did Red bring her into the fold, and if the reason wasn't shady, then _why_ wouldn't they give her a straight answer when she asked? Why be so coy about it?

Countless hours were spent mulling over the possible nature of their relationship. Best case scenario, Samar was on Red's payroll as a mole, planted to spy on the taskforce and guard his interests. That accusation was the only one that Liz could verbalize and she'd done so with a vehemence so excessive that it shocked her even in hindsight.

But it was the worst case scenario that provoked the bulk of her childish behavior. She was convinced that the other woman's hands were in more than just the pockets of Red's finely-tailored trousers. If she happened to be wrong, however, and they weren't _fucking_ yet, then she deemed it inevitable, a mere matter of opportunity or time.

Such awful, blind jealousy.

Even now, in the face of her guilt, and after everything that they had been through together, aftershocks of that old insecurity coursed through her because she _still_ didn't know if they'd ever slept together or not. And UGH, the shame of her mind wandering to that blindingly-bright green place again...

Not only that, Liz realized with alarm, but she wasn't even the first false Lazarus to betray Samar and rise from the dead. Shahin had already earned that distinction. And in the most heinous of twists, after finally finding her brother, she'd then willingly sacrificed him for Red's exoneration scheme.

Samar may have truly found it in her heart to forgive her for those months of rude, childish behavior. For this horribly cruel betrayal, however? Not a chance.

At last, the video came to an end with the unsettling view of Mr. Kaplan zipping up the black body bag. Liz was all too happy to disconnect the thumb drive and close the laptop.

Red immediately reclaimed his usual position at the forefront of her mind. Red. Red. _Red._ She was desperate to go to him, to apologize and hold him as tightly as he'd allow. He did tell her where to find him, in case she needed him, but she knew that the offer was mostly reflexive on his part. After all that she'd done, why should she be welcome there, in his room, in his arms? It was a miracle that he didn't hate her, that he even still cared enough to come to her rescue.

She sighed and hauled her weary body over to the bed, rubbing at the deep, dark circles under her eyes. It had been the longest of days, and sleep would be heavenly.

Unfortunately, it would also be elusive.

-...-...-...-...-

After taking a shower hot enough to make his skin bright pink and tender, Red dove headfirst into an expensive bottle of scotch. Knowing that Lizzie was alive and safe should have been enough to quiet his mind, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking about what she might be doing in that very moment. He pictured her up in her room on the third floor, reading Aram's letter, watching the dashcam footage, feeling guilty, and probably crying. No, _definitely_ crying, and what about Agnes? Was she awake and fussing, or fast asleep? Was she a fussy baby in general? He knew so little about his own daughter.

 _His own daughter_.

For decades, the word alone had been a ball of lead lodged in his thoracic cavity, making the weight of his own chest unbearable at times. It stung on his tongue and burned in his throat like acid reflux. Every ounce of his paternal pride had morphed into its inverse, perpetual shame and pain.

If Lizzie was his second chance, then Agnes would be his third. The realization made him anxious, knowing that trouble loomed around every corner, coveting that which he loved most. Men like himself don't get this many chances. They aren't rewarded for their reckless behavior.

He could think of few things more reckless than letting go inside of her, and zero things that felt as mind-meltingly good. His blood began to pool lower at the memory, and goddamnit, could he ever have a solitary, pensive moment without remembering how she moaned into his mouth as she pulled him in deep? And how she was so tight and so exquisitely wet _just for him,_ and FUCK, ENOUGH ALREADY.

Chastising himself, he sat down on a rattan wingback chair, looking across the yard to the window of her room. If she should come to see him, then he wanted to have the meager benefit of a few seconds notice. Each minute that ticked by, he vacillated ten times between hoping she'd come and hoping she wouldn't. His eyes seldom drifted from her window.

By the time the back door opened and she emerged, cradling their daughter with both arms, he'd refilled his crystal tumbler four times. The diaper bag slung over her shoulder suggested that she intended to stay awhile, and Red couldn't even begin to process how he felt about that.

As she lightly padded around the perimeter of the pool, his overactive imagination formed an image of her taking a graceful, slow-motion swan dive off of the diving board, in the nude. Her skin would look exquisitely opalescent, so creamy and smooth and _begging_ to be tasted, under Havana's full moon.

He was so taken by the fantasy that her soft knocking abruptly startled him back into the present, and hell, he was already hard again. He stood up and grunted as he hastily tucked his erection into the waistband of his boxers, concealing his arousal as well as he could. He then took a deep breath and smoothed his expression before opening the door and stepping backward in immediate invitation. "Lizzie."

Before he could say another word, she blurted, "I couldn't sleep." Impulse drove her an extra, experimental step forward, into his personal space.

The very depths of his fury, relief, frustration, desire, and love all rushed to inform his behavior at once, but none managed to come out on top. They instead combined into a homogeneous, useless amalgam of feelings for which he had no name. After closing the door behind her, his outstretched hand rose a bit higher and froze, hovering near her neck.

Her breath hitched in anticipation, but desire quickly gave way to concern when she registered the furrow of his brow and the twin funnel clouds brewing beneath. "What is it?"

Several silent seconds passed, just long enough for self-doubt to creep in and color her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I- I shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm probably the last person in the world that you want to see right now."

She was wrong, but not completely.

In truth, part of him still wasn't entirely convinced that any of this was real- that she was actually there, alive, and that together they'd made the beautiful little creature in her arms. If this turned out to be another cruel hallucination, then he wouldn't, couldn't possibly endure it. He bit down on his inner cheek until it bled, as if physical pain might satisfy the burden of proof.

But rather than answering the question or asking her to stay, he leaned in and more closely appraised her appearance, gently combing his fingers through her hair and pushing it back, off of her shoulder. She trembled at the warmth of his breath cascading over the vulnerable, newly-exposed skin of her neck, but it wasn't at all clear to her what he might do next.

Would he kiss her? Bite her? Pull her tightly against the broad expanse of his chest? Push her up against the wall and use his tongue to locate her carotid pulse?

All she knew was that good or bad, pleasure or pain, she'd accept whatever happened next.

His fingertips answered her unspoken questions by lightly tracing the length of her collarbone, only to arrive at the strap of the diaper bag and step backwards, taking it in the same opportunistically-chivalrous, hospitable-but-gratuitous way that he'd so often taken her coat.

Liz let out the breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, disappointed that he hadn't kissed her, but also encouraged that he didn't want her to leave. Every cell in her body screamed for more, more, more.

Too slowly, Red realized the mistake that he'd just made. Her red-rimmed eyes confirmed his suspicions that she had been crying in her room, but they also noticeably flashed with need at his touch.

That look.

Oh, he knew _that_ look. He couldn't possibly forget it. It was, after all, the one that had lead to the conception of their daughter.

And he was powerless against it.

His own eyes lowered to escape her gaze and to hopefully cease the overeager twitching in his pants, only to discover that taking the diaper bag had caused her blouse to slip lower on one side, giving him an eyefull of her cleavage. He thickly swallowed and croaked, "Would you like a drink? Can you even, uh, I mean, are you-"

After following the path that his eyes had traveled, the musical sound of her laughter filled the room. She couldn't help it. He was impossibly endearing when nervous, and it empowered her to find that she could still elicit that response, especially now, after the horrible things that she had done.

There was hope for them, yet.

"Yes, please. I would love a drink, and you don't have to worry. I'm not breastfeeding."

It didn't escape his notice that despite catching his wandering eyes, she'd made no move to cover herself up.

Then a familiar, stabbing pang of regret caused her to abruptly fall silent and look down at her daughter with apologetic eyes. She _did_ want to breastfeed. It was one of the very precious few parenting decisions that she'd made early on, and with absolute certainty.

Red wanted to slam his head against the wall for bringing it up. If he'd given the subject even the slightest bit of thought, then he would have known not to ask.

Regardless of Lizzie's own culpability, his anger at Kate's betrayal swelled anew. Oh sure, she'd drawn up a fine set of blueprints for an impromptu fake death, but what had she done to prepare her for the very real life that would follow? Good god, with all of his resources readily available, Kate could have at least given her a fucking breast pump. He clenched his jaw at the thought of Lizzie's time alone in Cuba, about the physical and emotional pain that she must have endured while her breasts became engorged with milk and then slowly dried up, her body behaving as if her daughter had died.

His instinct was to apologize, but her body language suggested that she didn't want to talk about it, so he pretended not to notice her suddenly-crestfallen demeanor. "Please, have a seat. I'm having scotch, but I'm sure we can find something lighter for you in the wine cellar."

Had it belonged to anyone else, she would have been surprised that the pool house had a wine cellar. "Scotch would be great, thank you."

He placed the diaper bag on the bar top before grabbing his empty glass and a clean one for her.

By the time both were filled, Liz had made herself comfortable in the very center of the living room couch. He could either sit right beside her, or fetch the wingback chair from the other side of the room. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two options, but it seemed beneath him to expend that much effort on a seating arrangement. He was grateful when she made the decision for him, expectantly patting the couch cushion beside her.

It took him entirely too long to realize that she'd chosen her seat for exactly that reason.

After he sat down, she then surprised him again by scooting even closer, until their thighs touched. He bit his lip to quell the shiver that threatened to race down his spine.

It was in that precise moment that Agnes stirred, slowly blinking her sleepy eyes and then locking her focus on Red. She began to squirm within the confines of her swaddling.

"Uh oh," he whispered, expecting imminent shrieks and tears. He took it upon himself to hastily locate the corner of the blanket and then untuck and loosen it.

She continued to wriggle until her arms were free and outstretched toward him, both hands opening and closing in a grabbing motion. Her objective was crystal clear.

"Do you want to hold her?"

His eyes lit up and his breath caught at the offer. _Of course_ he did, and despite the fact that he'd held her several times already, this moment carried the heavy significance of the first time. He'd never done it with her permission before. Too choked up for words, he nodded in affirmation.

It tugged at Liz's heartstrings fiercely, just to see how much Red wanted his baby girl. Blinking through the sting of fresh tears, she made a secret, silent vow to him that she would never disappear again, and then finally placed the baby in the crook of his awaiting arms.

It occured to her then how capably Agnes had demanded and retained his full attention, and that they each seemed equally enthralled by the other.

Never one to let an opportunity pass, Liz leaned into his side and rested her cheek against his shoulder, where she could surreptitiously revel in the heady scent of his aftershave.

She sighed in wonder and exalted, "It's like _she knows_."

After a few seconds, Red found his voice again. "Knows what?"

"That she's yours. Do you think she does?"

He offered his fingers for their little one to grab, genuinely considering the question before replying, "No, but... I think she knows that I'm hers."

-...-...-...-...-

AN: The tiny seed of an idea for this story came from my desire for Liz to have seen Red's reaction to her 'death'. Hopefully, the whole dashcam footage thing wasn't too contrived.

And there's at least one more chapter to come!


	3. Chapter 3

**AN** : I'm slow. Ugh, the slowest, I know. Nonetheless, here it is. Again, there's sexual tension/thoughts, but no smut. Oh, and FINALLY Red's gonna confront Liz about all of the pain she's caused him. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! If you have any thoughts or comments, I'd love to read them, so please don't hesitate to share.

-...-...-..-

For nearly fifteen minutes, they lounged in silence, sipping their drinks and reveling in the sweetness of their little girl. With hopes of lengthening the pleasant, peaceful moment, Red was making a valiant effort to squash his anger at Liz's betrayal, but exhaustion and the comfortable warmth of her body against his side put him squarely on the precipice of nodding off. He had to make a decision, and quickly.

Speak or sleep?

He'd originally planned to delay their necessary heart-to-heart until the following day, after they'd both had some much-needed rest. Red, the reigning king of delayed gratification, thought that he could wait.

But he suddenly found himself more acutely aware of the ephemeral nature of their existence. A mere six-hour delay morphed into a risk greater than he'd willingly accept. Since Liz had made the decision to come see him now, rather than wait for dawn, he suspected that she was feeling the same, so he gave her a little nudge. "As I recall, a night of restful sleep is more noteworthy for you than a night without. Are you going to tell me why you're really here? Do you need my help with something?"

Though he believed that he already knew what had brought her to him, he wasn't going to lead her with specifics.

Liz's most immediate thought rolled through her mind at the breakneck speed of a single, monosyllabic word. _'Because-I'm-so-fucking-sorry-that-I-can-hardly-breathe-and-I-need-you-to-touch-me.'_

That wouldn't do.

"I don't know." Sighing, she shoved her hand into her pocket, pulled out the thumb drive, and held it up expectantly. "I guess to return this."

It was true enough- just one of the many elephants crowding the room, all lined up and impatiently waiting to be addressed.

He nodded but made no move to take it from her. Liz wondered if he was waiting for her to speak.

She could think of no place better to start than the very beginning. "You know, on the day that you strolled into J. Edgar Hoover and kneeled down in the lobby, I knew intellectually that I was a vulnerability to you, because you needed me. I knew it as soon as I was debriefed on the situation, before we even sat face-to-face. I _knew_ it for such a long time, but... I don't think I ever really _felt_ it until I watched that video tonight and saw your legs give out."

Red cracked a small smile and offered a half-hearted attempt at levity, "I do have a bum knee, you know."

But she wasn't amused. "It wasn't your knee."

"No... it wasn't," he conceded.

Liz stared at him openly, imploring. He could see that she was treating him with kid gloves, willing him to understand what she wanted but unwilling to apply any pressure.

His side. She wanted to hear about _his_ side of recent events.

Fine. He'd have to learn to be more open with her, anyway.

Red's voice blew out in a low, monotone rasp. "Everything about that came as a surprise to me. Everything, from Donald unwittingly recording the moment, to Aram intuitively knowing that I'd want to have it. And the fundamental lies and betrayals that brought it all to fruition, such as the manner of your death."

He shook his head and gazed up at the ceiling, his jaw stretching open and then closed again. " _Especially_ the manner of 'your death'. Starting when you were just a child, I've imagined hundreds of worst case scenarios, and from the shadows, unbeknownst to you, I've eradicated almost as many threats. But for you to die, or even to fake-die in childbirth? For my closest confidant to orchestrate it all, knowing that it would destroy me? For her to sit back on her hands while she watched my inevitable unraveling? Never that."

He sounded so emotionally distant, so artificially placid that if not for their daughter, Liz would want to run outside and drown herself in the pool.

Or slap him across the face and scream into his ear.

Or climb into his lap and grind herself against him so that he could do nothing but hold her in place and buck upwards until the heat and the friction of his hardness made her come.

They were all equally attractive options.

He relayed these events to her with less feeling than he would a story about ants, and it nearly drove her mad until-

Oblivious to her salacious inner conflict, Red's voice finally, _finally_ cracked to reveal a hint of the strain that had previously only rippled below the surface. She in turn began to punctuate his sentences with soft whimpers and winces. She couldn't help it.

"From my side of your cruel charade, it was the last time I'd ever see you in the flesh. It was the last time I'd feel the luxurious softness of your skin against mine... the last time I'd have a reason to fight for something, to fight for anything at all."

She knew from experience that he couldn't stand the sight of her eyes when she was broken down and crying, so she rested her cheek against his shoulder again, essentially hiding in plain sight, hoping to make the conversation easier for him.

And just as she deserved, it dragged on.

"Have you ever heard of Carl von Cosel?" He asked.

And _again_ she wanted to scream. His question came with an entirely different tone, schooled and stoic, as if within the span of a single breath, while she put her head on his shoulder, he'd shrugged off one personality and donned another.

 _Raymond_ was hurting, but _Red_ still had a story to tell.

He paused to let her answer, so she shook her head 'no', knowing that it would prompt a detour for storytime.

She'd soon wish that she had lied.

"Von Cosel was born 'Carl Tanzler' in the late nineteenth century, in Dresden. As a boy, he dreamed that one of his ancestors had come down from heaven to introduce him to his soul mate. It was so vivid that in his mind, it permanently erased the line between fantasy and reality, and he became fixated on the image of this beautiful, ethereal woman in his dream. For decades, everywhere he went, he looked for her, but to no avail. Somewhere along the way, he married and had two daughters, but the dream woman was never far from his mind. He wouldn't stop looking."

Before she could think better of it, Liz jumped in and asked, "Wait, so he believed in soul mates, but he married a different woman, despite knowing that it wasn't her?"

His reply was a flawless deadpan. "You sound surprised." He might as well have told her that she was the last person in the world who should be surprised, that she of all people should know that people marry for all kinds of reasons.

Effectively shamed into silence, all she could do was wait for him to go on.

"In the 1920s, when he was in his early fifties, he emigrated to the US and started going by 'Carl von Cosel'. He got a job at a hospital in Key West, and it was there that he met Elena, a 21-year-old Cuban expat with tuberculosis. Immediately, he recognized her as the woman from his dream. He was on top of the world and over the moon. At last, he'd found his soul mate!"

"From the very beginning, he openly professed his love and showered her with gifts. This behavior was just as unusual back then as it would be today, but in his hubristic mind, they were bound together by fate, and he was the only person in the world who could save her life. He just _knew_ that as soon as he did, she'd automatically fall in love with him too."

"Under less dire circumstances, both Elena and her family probably would have been alarmed, but they were very poor, and her prognosis poorer. They desperately wanted to believe von Cosel when he so confidently declared that he'd save her, free of charge, and so they gave him _carta blanca_ to try all manner of dubious treatments, most of which he'd invented himself. Try as he might, however, Elena ultimately succumbed to her illness."

"It's worth noting that there's no indication that his feelings for her were ever returned. Rather, both Elena and her family tolerated his overbearing presence and affections because he was her best hope for survival."

Liz had to wonder if Red self-identified with von Cosel's hubris. Was that what he believed as well, that only he could save her, and that she'd then fall in love with him?

Because in his case, he'd successfully saved her countless times, and it wouldn't be hubris.

OR, did he perceive himself as the well-meaning, crazy old fool that she and Sam only tolerated because they had an extreme shortage of options?

That was far more likely, and it made her heart ache for him even more.

"After she died, they accepted von Cosel's offer to pay for both her funeral and the construction of an above-ground mausoleum. Only he and her sister, Florinda, had a key for it. For the next two years, von Cosel was seen visiting the cemetery almost every night. When he suddenly stopped, it was without explanation, but everyone just assumed that he had finally moved on."

Liz wrinkled her nose, hoping that the story wouldn't go in the direction that it seemed to be headed.

"Seven years later, Florinda began to hear outrageous, whispered rumors about the doctor, prompting her to enter the mausoleum for the very first time, only to find it empty. Unfortunately, von Cosel had moved to another town, but she eventually managed to track him down. When she knocked on his door, he welcomed her inside without hesitation, as if everything were normal and he had nothing to hide."

Red shook his head and chuckled loudly, as he so often did while spinning these strange tales, and she knew it meant that the story was about to get darker.

"On his bed, she spied what looked like a wax mannequin, but of course it wasn't. It was Elena. He claimed that during his nightly visits to the mausoleum, she begged and pleaded for him to take her away, and he was simply rendered powerless, unable to deny anything to the woman that he loved. As you can imagine, that didn't cut it for Florinda. She ran away screaming and alerted the authorities. They wasted no time rescuing the corpse and hauling von Cosel to jail."

"Ugh," was the only response that Liz could utter, but the worst was yet to come.

"A coroner's examination of the body revealed the means by which von Cosel had tried to preserve her. Her bones were tied together with wires and piano string. Her torso was stuffed with rags to maintain its shape. Her face was reconstructed with mortician's wax, and her eyes were glass. As her skin had decomposed, he replaced it with silk that was coated in a mixture of plaster of paris and wax. When her hair fell out, he made it into a wig. He masked the stench of decomposition with a combination of oils, herbs, and perfumes."

"A media frenzy erupted. People were so entranced by the story that before she was to be buried in a secret, unmarked location, city officials decided to put Elena's body on public display. More than six thousand people came to gawk."

"So," Liz began, "I presume he was jailed for a long time."

"You presume wrong. Though he was deemed competent to stand trial, the statute of limitations for both grave robbery and desecration of a corpse had expired, so the charges were dropped. He was perceived by most as harmless- just an eccentric, pitiful, lovelorn man. Ah, but that's because for decades, the more illicit discoveries from the coronor's exam were withheld from the public."

That could only mean one thing. Liz's eyes widened. "That's vile." She hoped that the story was done, and that he'd hurry up and circle back toward whatever parts of it were relevant.

Or maybe not. Did she really want to know?

He then quieted for just a moment, steeling himself by turning to nuzzle the top of her head, indulging in the scent of her shampoo.

His voice was soft in volume but gravel-rough in texture. "Trying to bargain with the laws of nature is crushing in its futility. I've never lied to myself with such conviction as that afternoon with you, in the back of that van."

Liz could feel the tension in his body, the strain like an icepick crudely opening his sternum. He'd never been very good at pouring his heart out- not to her, at least.

"I almost believed that as long as I held onto your hand, it would never grow cold. I could lend you my warmth. If I kneaded your muscles, rigor would never set in. Maybe my heart could even beat strongly enough to circulate your blood as well as mine, and then you wouldn't have to go, and I... I just wanted to try."

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking his head. "That night, I recalled von Cosel's story, and for the first time, I found myself not only pitying him, but empathizing as well. He'd spent the vast majority of his life thinking about her, dreaming about her, and when he _finally_ knew the joy of being face-to-face with her, it was so damnably fleeting. I can see how obsession and despair might drive a less sane man to commit such depravities. He just couldn't let her go."

Red lamented the ineloquence of this retelling of his heartbreak. It was raw and it was real and it was the best that he could do.

And for the sake of their shaky, nebulous relationship, she needed to hear it.

He continued, less softly, "Though painful beyond measure, the memory of our final moment together was invaluable to me, so between the video and Aram's kind words, that thumb drive became _everything_."

The tension between them crescendoed so slowly that she hardly noticed, until his teeth were clenched together so tightly that Liz almost couldn't understand him anymore. She smirked at the sudden, inappropriate realization that he'd make a terrible ventriloquist.

Predictably, their daughter didn't appreciate his tone. She began to fuss, her chunky legs pumping with surprising strength. Red popped his index finger into her mouth, and she eagerly gummed it, mollified almost instantly.

He was a natural. He was one of those men that make fatherhood look easy.

Because of her, he tried to focus on calming the strain in his voice, but it was no use. He failed.

Miserably.

"Tom had Agnes, the only living and breathing and _real_ piece of you. Tom had _my daughter_ because YOU GAVE HER TO HIM, and what did I have? I had a stupid piece of cheap metal and plastic, and like the pitiful old fool that I am, I cherished it. At one point, I was even envious of _the courier_ , for his ability to hide such things beneath his skin. I had to settle for keeping it in my pocket. Whenever I felt uneasy, which was often, I'd compulsively run my fingers over it. If you look closely, you'll see the faint outline of the logo that I managed to rub off of its side."

Before Liz could oblige, he took her hand in his and flipped it over, palm-up. With his fingers encircling her wrist, his thumb rhythmically caressed the mottled length of her burn scar. "Not unlike the way that you do _this_."

Shocked by the unexpected, electric contact, she gasped and briefly closed her eyes.

It didn't go unnoticed.

On impulse, Red's nimble fingers then successfully sought out her radial pulse. It thundered beneath the pale skin of her wrist, reassuring and real, incontrovertible proof of her physical response to him. Her body was a dangerous weapon, indeed- one that he could not only turn on, but also turn on himself.

This was new territory for him, but he could think of no sweeter demise.

Normally, he _expected_ women to sense that he could satisfy their physical needs. He could also afford to be absurdly selective, and the few to pass muster invariably felt lucky to find themselves under his skilled hands, pressed into his mattress.

Or chaise lounge. Or desk. Or kitchen table.

Or any other available piece of furniture, really.

And given the chance, his paramours always, always returned for another round.

But Lizzie, _his Lizzie_ , she was different. She was _significant_. For her to respond to his questing fingers was still unexpected and novel and thrilling beyond measure. He couldn't even be sure if she desired more after their one night together. She never let it show.

Until perhaps now.

Despite the lingering pain of her betrayal, he was tempted, _too_ tempted.

Rather than simply release her, he practically threw Liz's hand back into her own lap. She flinched and reared her head up to look at him, her lids heavy with the questions lurking beneath them.

Red's voice lowered further and thickened with emotion. "But you're alive, so I don't need it now, and I don't want it. I don't ever want to think about a world without you in it. You _will_ outlive me, and _she_ will outlive both of us. That is the _only_ reality that I can accept."

She nodded mutely and put the thumb drive back into her pocket.

-...-...-...-...-

 **AN:** So, the creepy story that Red told? Non-fiction, believe it or not. I'm sorry if it got a little long/boring.

This fic isn't over yet, though.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou for reading!


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